Lost Time
by aewriteon
Summary: Sam wakes up in the hospital and finds himself struggling with injuries and his own dark thoughts. Meanwhile, Dean is feeling the strain of life on the road with his father. Set at the beginning of the series, AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

* * *

Sam woke up, choking.

Alarms were sounding all around him, he could tell that much. He was in a hospital… and he couldn't breathe. Finally, mercifully, a nurse came over to his bedside and removed the breathing tube from his throat.

The next thing Sam knew, a man in a white coat entered the room. "Hi Sam," he said gently. "Good to see you up. My name is Dr. Trinidad, and you're at Stanford Medical Center. How are you feeling?"

"Not so good," Sam said, truthfully. "Fuzzy."

"Fuzzy, huh? Do you remember what happened?"

Groggily, Sam replied. "No… not really."

The doctor smiled halfheartedly. "There was a fire, Sam, at your apartment. You sucked down a few too many lungfuls of smoke, and you've been unconscious for --"

"Oh god… that was real." A chill went down Sam's spine. God help him, he _did_ remember. Everything. "Jessica," he said frantically, gazing wildly at the doctor. "My girlfriend, Jess, she was in the apartment too."

The doctor swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Sam. There was nothing we could do for her.

* * *

He'd torn out his IV, the nurses told him, and broken a monitor. Those were expensive. He'd tried to get out of the bed but his weak body wouldn't allow it. They'd had to drug him to calm him down. Was he ready to try again, they asked. Was he ready to hear the extent of his injuries, to talk about what happened that night?

Sam nodded, and Dr. Trinidad entered, seemingly wary of his patient. "You've got some fight in you, Sam," he said, shaking his head. "Pulling out the IVs like that takes some strength, a surprising amount for a person who hasn't been awake in such a long time. That's a good thing though… the muscles haven't totally atrophied." He glanced at Sam's chart, then at Sam. "They tell me that you remember what happened… so you know that just getting out alive was incredible. That said, a fire like that, there's going to be some damage. You've got some lung damage from the smoke, and burns running the length of your left arm. You hand was spared, thankfully, and there was minimal grafting. I'm sure you've seen the scarring -- we did the best we could, and you should regain full mobility."

Sam glanced down at his arm. "These scars aren't new. None of it is. How long have I been out?"

The doctor looked at him uncomfortably. "It's been over three months, Sam."

* * *

This was so unlike any other trip to the hospital. There were no cover stories, no aliases to keep straight. He wished he could have that now, the anonymity. But there were counselors from the University, and the police, and the fire department, and - worst of all - Jess's parents. He'd always liked Jess's parents; they'd been kind to him, especially around the holidays.

It felt very different now, seeing them here. When they'd entered his hospital room, Sam noticed that Jess's mother seemed to have aged ten years. She was clutching an envelope (a get well card, Sam supposed) that she never ended up delivering -- she'd run from the hospital room in tears as soon as she laid eyes on Sam. Mr. Moore's reaction was worse. His voice said all the right things: Hope you get better, son. What a tragedy. Jess loved you. But his face… his face said different things: Where the hell were you when my baby was burning to death? It should be you that's dead, not her. How the fuck did you make it out alive, you son of a bitch, while I couldn't even bury a body?

The Moores never came back to the hospital after that.

* * *

The next few days were blurry. Sam was being kept on a powerful cocktail of drugs to stave off infection and control his pain. He had asked Dr. Trinidad about calling his family, and was informed that the hospital had tried contacting his father numerous times, but the number had been out of service. Of course, Sam couldn't exactly say that John had probably pissed off the wrong cop and had a dozen other phone numbers ready to go. Sam also kept to himself the fact that he would much rather see his brother than his father. At the same time, just thinking about Dean made Sam upset. They hadn't spoken in years and, despite the horrific circumstances surrounding Jessica's death (definitely our kind of case, Sam thought grimly), he was nervous about contacting Dean. At the present time, it wasn't even an option. Dr. Trinidad had said no phone calls for at least a week -- he wanted nothing upsetting Sam. No one could really understand how truly alone Sam felt right now. Jess was dead, because of him, and his brother and father might as well be dead as well. Sam vaguely wondered if they really were. At the very least, they had been totally uninterested in him for at least four months now. He expected that from his father, but from Dean? Sam swallowed hard. Maybe it was stupid, but he'd always kind of thought that Dean kept tabs on him, at least had his own ways of checking up on him over these past few years. That was looking less and less likely now.

Sam could feel his thoughts taking a dark turn, and decided to distract himself with some television. Not much on at 3pm, he thought. Sam picked up the remote to do a little channel surfing when a sudden, shooting pain invaded his skull. He cried out, dropping the remote to the floor. Looking down, he realized he was no longer in his hospital room, but in a basement. He watched, helpless, as two shadowy figures tussled with each other. The altercation was quite violent, and Sam heard a sickening crack as one of the men's heads connected with the concrete floor.

"Honey? Sam?" A nurse was shaking him. "Wake up! You're having a bad dream!"

Sam gasped, holding his aching head in his hands. "I have to stop it," he mumbled.

"Stop what?" the nurse asked. "Sam, you were crying out in your sleep, saying awful things. I'm giving you a sedative."

Sam didn't have the strength to fight her. What the hell was happening to him? This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Before the fire, he'd dreamed of Jessica dying, vividly. Just as it had happened. That was a secret he'd take to his grave, he knew. But he didn't recognize the men in the last image -- he couldn't even make out their faces. As the sedative took hold, Sam blankly wondered what was happening to him.

* * *

More to come. Thanks for reading! ----- AE


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

* * *

Dean was tired. He hadn't slept in three days, and it was taking every ounce of his concentration to get out the lengthy Latin exorcism without error. Truth be told, he was struggling. And John was not being very patient.

"I swear, Dean, if you screw this up one more time --"

"You'll what? Thought you wanted me to learn this shit."

"I should have just done this myself," John muttered.

"Done what yourself, this hunt?" Dean scoffed. "I'm sure that would have worked out real well with the concussion."

The demon they were exorcising spoke up. "Fighting again? Well isn't that just typical. Didn't used to be that way… you used to be a good little soldier, Dean, back when Sammy was around."

Dean glared. "Shut up."

The demon grinned. "Ooooh, I think I hit a nerve with that one. I just love doing that." He smiled flirtatiously at John. "Your son's cute when he's angry. Quite a chip off the old block, too -- aaaagh," the demon's taunts were interrupted by John slinging an ice bucket full of holy water at his face.

John glanced moodily across the abandoned warehouse at Dean. "Would you fucking finish it already?"

"I'm going as fast as I can, John," Dean said steadily. He'd stopped calling his father "Dad" a few months back, when their relationship had taken an extreme turn toward the professional and away from the familial. After Sammy had left. Dean silently cursed the demon for bringing up his brother's name.

"Seriously, Dean, fucking finish it already!" The demon mimicked. "Get me back to hell, already." He peered curiously at John. "I'm really surprised you didn't teach your boy all this exorcism crap years ago. We might not have to be sitting through these poor attempts at garbled Latin if Dean had some practice." John shot the demon a menacing look, which was ignored. "Anyway, from what I heard, Dean isn't really the Winchester with the mental gifts." Dean smirked to himself, shaking his head. This demon was working his last nerve. "That was more Sammy's domain… not that he's been very active lately."

That caught Dean's attention. "What?"

John shook his head. "Don't engage it, Dean -- that's what it wants."

Dean hesitated. "Come on, Dean," the demon whispered. "Ask me anything." Dean was silent, the Latin forgotten. "Your father hasn't let you contact Sam in months, is that right? And for what… so you have the privilege of accompanying him on his little revenge road trip?"

"Stay focused, Son," John warned.

"Don't tell me what to do," Dean said quietly, dangerously.

John cocked his head. "Boy, you sure as hell don't want to do this with me, not right now. This demon doesn't know shit, Dean. We're finishing this and moving on to someone who can tell us something worthwhile."

"News about your other son isn't worthwhile?" the demon asked. "You never did like Sammy very much, did you? You'd probably like him better now, actually. He isn't so talkative."

Now even John hesitated. "What the hell are you talking about?" Dean asked.

The demon smiled up at the two men. "Oh, it's nothing. Let's just get this thing over with." He smiled lasciviously at Dean again. "Come a little closer, honey. You've got a nice voice. It matches your ass."

Dean nearly charged the demon. "What the fuck do you know about Sam?"

The demon chuckled. "That's pretty funny, you needing to ask me for information about your brother. Daddy's had you under his thumb a long time, huh? Who can blame him, though, really? I wish I could have you under me…"

"That's enough!" John grunted, grabbing the book of Latin out of Dean's hands. "Exorciamus te…"

The demon looked pointedly at John. "When I get out, I'm looking up your kid, John. This one," he said, motioning to Dean. "We'll have so much fun, Dean. You, me, that pretty face of yours."

"What do you know about Sam?" Dean asked frantically. The demon was writhing in pain, a result of John's exorcism. "John, stop!" The Latin continued to flow. "Dad, please…" Dean looked on, defeated, as black smoke poured from the possessed man's lips.

Dean stormed from the warehouse as John knelt to check the host's vital signs. John shook his head wearily when he could detect no pulse. These recent demons were riding their hosts longer and harder. This one had been a real bastard. Steeling himself for the confrontation he knew would come, John exited the warehouse and went to the Impala to find Dean.

Dean was angrily packing his things in the car when he heard John approach. "I can't believe you just exorcised it like that."

"You were sloppy in there, Dean. I had to clean up your mess."

"My mess…" Dean repeated to himself as he slammed the trunk closed.

"What you did in there was stupid, but it was a good lesson," John said. "You need to learn how to keep your focus, no matter what a creature is saying to you. And demons? Well, they're about the worst, son. They'll bring up any dirt they have on you to get a reaction."

Dean faced his father. "Did you ever think that maybe I wouldn't have had such a strong reaction if we actually talked about Sam?"

John's eyes narrowed. "I don't want to get into this, Dean, not tonight. You need sleep."

Dean was struggling to keep his composure. "I have done everything you've asked of me these past few years." He looked pointedly at John. "Especially the last few months. But right now, I'm telling you -- I'm calling Sam in the morning."

"You don't think that's going to raise suspicions, Dean? Calling your brother after years of no contact?" John's voice had an edge to it. "You and I had an agreement. Don't you want to keep your brother safe?"

"Keep him safe?" Dean asked, incredulous. "Oh yeah, you've always been real concerned about that."

"What are you implying?"

Dean shut down. "Nothing. I'm just saying that a demon threatened Sam, and I think we should give him a heads up."

"You call him, you know what happens." John's statement seemed neutral on the surface, but it stirred up much deeper emotions in Dean.

"You won't walk," Dean said. "You need me now. You may have wanted to do this as a solo act, but it's a two man job now, and I'm in."

John was unmoving. "When you begged me to be a part of this, I had only one condition, and it still stands. If you want to go after the demon with me, you are not to contact Sam. I don't want him to be a part of this, Dean. I don't want him on their radar. And he doesn't want to be involved either. He made that choice when he left us."

"You didn't give him much of a choice."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna pass out if I don't get some sleep. I'll meet you back at the hotel after you get rid of the body."

Dean sighed wearily as he watched his father's truck rumble away. The demon tonight was right -- it had touched a nerve by bringing up Sam. Dean couldn't believe how much time had gone by without a phone call, without a clandestine visit. Not a day went by that he didn't think of Sam in some way.

The worst of it had started about five months ago. Dean was about to go to New Orleans on a solo gig, but Dad had been acting strange -- secretive phone calls, unexplained disappearances. With some intense surveillance, Dean had caught Dad red-handed in the middle of the night, trying to slip a wad of hundred dollar bills into Dean's boot. Dad would never do that, not under normal circumstances. After some major pressure (and a couple of fists all around), Dad's secret came out: he was onto something big. Demon big. Mom's killer big. And Dean had insisted on coming with him.

Dad wasn't pleased. In fact, he'd been pissed. He'd given Dean a choice: Dean could branch out on his own, take the Impala and do some solo stuff, but stay away from John and hunting the demon. Or… Dean could come with John. Put the petty hunts aside and focus on killing the thing that had killed mom. Dad knew it was a demon now, and he actually had some clues as to its whereabouts. If Dean came along, though, John said he had to swear not to have any contact with Sam.

Dean had been torn. He wanted to hunt down the demon, badly. And he hadn't even really spoken to Sam in years. But the fact that his father had made that a part of the deal really burned him. What right did he have to dictate his communication with his own brother?

In the end, John had won out, and Dean had joined him. The resentment hadn't faded, though, and Dean had rebelled in little ways. Like calling Dad "John" or picking fights over minor issues. Tonight, however, Dean's turmoil had reached a breaking point.

"Dad doesn't have to know," Dean whispered to himself as he dialed Sam's number.

* * *

Thanksfor reading! Hope you enjoyed it... there's more to come. ----- AE


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

* * *

Morning broke, rousing John from his deep sleep. His head throbbed, but it felt better than it had the past few days. He'd never admit it, but he was grateful that Dean had taken the lead on this last demon case. Looking around, he saw his son sitting on his bed, lacing up his boots.

"You're up early."

Dean shrugged. "Couldn't sleep very well."

John studied his son. His lack of sleep was evident. Dark, purplish circles stood out beneath Dean's eyes. "Well, you better get some sleep before we start the next hunt. You need to stay sharp," John said gruffly.

Dean merely shrugged again. "While you pack your stuff," Dean said, "I'll pick us up breakfast." He stood up and stretched. "Bagels okay?" John nodded, relieved that Dean's foul mood from last night had apparently blown over.

Dean exited the dingy hotel room and fired up the Impala. As soon as he was out of sight of the motel, he reached for his cell phone. Worry gnawed at him -- with his father, it wasn't a question of if he'd find out, but when. Ask Dean to salt and burn a corpse, and he was good, but talk to John about Sammy going to college? Dean felt like a middle schooler hiding cigarettes -- young and nervous. He hated that John still had that effect on him.

And ten times worse than the worry he felt over John was the worry he felt over Sam. After he'd secretly, sweatily worked up the nerve to dial Sam's number last night, a tinny voice and some harsh electronic tones had told him it'd been disconnected. Dean told himself stuff like that happened all the time -- Sam had probably just gotten a new phone, or a local California number, or…

No. That was what happened to normal people. As much as Sam wanted to be normal, he just wasn't, and Dean had a terrible feeling about the disconnected cell phone. Working up his nerve on the way to the bagel place, Dean called Information and was soon connected to a pleasant sounding woman.

"Arc Mobile. How may I help you?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Hi, this is Sam Winchester. My phone number isn't working. Is there a reason for that?"

"Well, let's see Mr. Winchester," said the woman. "Oh, okay. It looks like we haven't received a payment from you in about four months. We sent two notices but received no reply. We shut off your account about a month ago. Would you like to reopen it?"

Dean hung up abruptly. No payments in four months? That didn't sound like his responsible brother. He dialed Information again, and was connected to the financial aid department at Stanford.

Time for a show. Dean cleared his throat. "Good morning, this is John Winchester. My son, Sam, is a senior at Stanford, and I wanted to inquire about tuition payments." After a routine set of security questions, Dean was speaking with a financial aid representative.

"Well, Mr. Winchester," the representative said, "it looks like you owe nothing on your son's accounts for this semester, with him being out and all."

"Out?" Dean repeated.

"Yes," the representative replied. "Out on academic leave for the semester."

Maybe if he'd been more prepared, he could have kept the act going, talked about "kids these days" and gotten the scoop behind Sam's absence, if this guy even knew one iota of information beyond what his computer screen told him. Instead, Dean hung up. He was reeling. He wanted to tell his father, badly, but was determined to hold off until he could gather more information. Dad would bolt first thing if Dean's concerns were unfounded, if he interrupted Dad's revenge spree to track down a perfectly fine Sam. But Dean knew, deep down, that John wouldn't just ignore Sam's situation if he was really in trouble, would he? Eighteen years together, pre-Stanford, was a lot to ignore. Sam being the last human link to Mom was a lot to ignore. Dean knew his dad had it in him to be a cruel son of a bitch, but he wasn't that cruel. Dean glanced at the clock on the dash. Dammit. Knowing he could stall no longer, he entered the bagel shop and picked up breakfast.

* * *

A coast away, Sam was waking up from a nap. He was taking a lot of those lately. Mind garbled, he forced himself to get a bearing on his surroundings. No bed -- cement -- he was in a basement, just waking up. The ground was cool and hard and the lighting sucked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two silhouettes (men, he decided) talking to each other. Suddenly, the shorter shadow ran at the larger man. How was there no sound? Bodies make sounds when they get thrown up against hard surfaces (Sam knew that all too well), and these guys were letting each other have it. Trying to get closer, straining to hear something, anything, Sam felt himself be grabbed from behind and began swinging.

"Shit! Son of a bitch!"

Startled by the sudden noise and the sudden brightness, Sam sat up straight in the… bed? Shit, he was back in the hospital room. And oh god, there was pretty, sweet Nurse Canton in front of him, blood streaming down her face. "Nurse Canton!" He tried to reach out to her, but she flinched away. "I'm so, so sorry." He glanced around, punching his call button. "Help! We need help in here!"

Within minutes, Nurse Canton had been whisked away and a cleaning crew had gotten rid of her "biological waste" -- her blood, Sam thought grimly. Blood that he was responsible for spilling. She was a tiny little thing, always nice to him, and he was sure he'd just broken her nose. As for Sam, his head was killing him, but the nursing staff wasn't being quite as friendly as usual, and Sam couldn't say he blamed them.

Dr. Trinidad entered the room, clutching Sam's chart. Sam shrank back against the bed, dreading the upcoming discussion.

"Hi Sam," Dr. Trinidad said, "how are you feeling?"

"Shitty," Sam said, frankly. "I feel terrible about Nurse Canton."

Dr. Trinidad offered him a wry smile. "I wanted to let you know that Nurse Canton is going to be okay. The nose was broken, but she's expected to heal just fine." He shone a light at Sam's pupils. "You must have been having one hell of a nightmare. Remember anything about it?"

"Not much," Sam sighed. "I was in a basement or something, and two people were fighting. Then I woke up, hit Nurse Canton, and I had this really bad headache."

Dr. Trinidad peered at him quizzically. "Stuff like this ever happened before? Ever taken a swing at someone in your sleep?"

Embarrassed, Sam fidgeted with the bed sheet. "Maybe once, with Jessica… yeah. I was brought up kind of weird, you know? Not the best environment, I guess." He eyed the concerned-looking doctor. "No abuse or anything like that… just unpredictable."

"Uh huh," Dr. Trinidad murmured, making a note on his tablet. "Sam, the staff and I have observed some pretty disrupted sleeping patterns from you. A lot of middle of the night awakenings, restless sleep, and some pretty vivid ramblings."

"Oh?" Sam said cautiously.

"I don't put much stock in dreams," Dr. Trinidad continued, "but you've been going on about some pretty scary stuff. The fire, monsters… demons. The sedatives have been keeping you relatively calm, but we're still concerned. Also, the headaches… you had one yesterday as well, correct?"

Sam had actually had a few headaches, at least four, all accompanied by the same damn basement scene. And he wasn't about to tell the doctor about all the headaches he'd had before the fire, all the times he saw Jess burn alive on the ceiling. He swallowed hard. "Yeah, I get headaches sometimes."

"That may be the case, but these recent headaches seem to be accompanied by some erratic vital signs and dissociative symptoms -- it's like you're not quite here with us, Sam."

Sam peered up at the doctor. "Do you know what's going on? Did I hit my head or something?"

The doctor sat down on the edge of Sam's bed. "We think it might be Posttraumatic Stress Disorder -- PTSD. Have you heard of it?"

Sam gave a half-smile. "Yeah, I've heard of it… I don't think that's what this is, though."

"Hear me out, Sam," Dr. Trinidad urged. "PTSD is a serious condition, but it's treatable. You're displaying many of the classic symptoms, and I believe the best place for you, currently, would be in the psychiatric wing where you can get the attention and medication you need."

"What?" Sam was startled by the doctor's recommendation. "No, I don't need to go to the psych ward. I… I don't exactly know what's going on with me, but I don't think it's PTSD."

"It may not be, Sam, but I would really like you to be evaluated for that condition. I would still be treating the injuries you sustained, and you'd still be going to physical rehab, but I truly believe some psychiatric treatment is the supplement you need right now." Sam began to protest, but Dr. Trinidad cut him off. "Listen, Sam, I know you didn't mean to hurt Nurse Canton. Everyone knows that. But the fact is, she's got a broken nose right now, and that's unacceptable. I just feel like you need more than we can give you right now."

Ashamed, Sam nodded his agreement. "You're right. I don't want to hurt anybody else. These dreams, whatever they are… I just want them to go away."

Dr. Trinidad smiled. "That's good, Sam… A very responsible decision," he noted as he turned to leave.

"Wait, Doctor," Sam said. Dr. Trinidad paused in the doorway. "Uh, listen, there's something that's been bugging me… I know I'm pre-law, not medicine or anything like that, but I'm really wondering how being in a fire could knock me out for four months, especially since my injuries weren't that bad."

Dr. Trinidad shook his head slowly. "I wish I had definitive answers for you, Sam. We're still working on figuring out why you were out for so long. It's unusual -- and I'd also have expected it to take weeks for you to regain the levels of mobility and strength you're currently demonstrating. More than anything, though, we're glad you're up and with us now. I'll still be your doctor, you know. We just need a place that's a little more secure for you, with these nightmares."

Sam hung his head. "I am so sorry about Nurse Canton. Please tell her I hope she's okay."

Dr. Trinidad held up his hand. "Please, no need for apologies, Sam. She knows how bad you feel about the whole incident. That said, we don't want to take any more chances with our staff. We'll be moving you to the psychiatric wing this afternoon."

* * *

By late evening, Dean and John had reached their destination and were settled into their motel room. Dad was going on about some new system of tracking the demon. Something about cattle deaths and lightening storms. Normally, Dean would have been riveted, but tonight his mind was elsewhere.

Dean's distraction didn't go unnoticed. "Son? I think you better go to bed," John said. "You aren't listening to a damn word I've said, and this is important information. Don't waste my time if you're not paying attention. I'll fill you in tomorrow morning and then I want us to start working on some of this at the library, alright?"

"Fine." Dean said, already removing his flannel overshirt. He turned around suddenly, getting the uncomfortable feeling that John was staring at him.

Staring turned out to be an understatement. John was glaring at Dean. Trying to lighten the mood, Dean joked, "You're creeping me out -- I'm trying to get changed here."

"Give me your phone, Dean."

Shit. Dean reached in his pocket, trying not to panic. He tossed the phone to John. "Catch." John caught the phone in one smooth motion. Dean changed his undershirt while keeping a close watch on John out of the corner of his eye. Better not to say anything, not yet.

John wasn't even pretending to have an innocent mission -- he went straight for the "Calls Dialed" section. Internally, Dean congratulated himself on deleting all of the offensive entries. Hadn't he learned to cover his tracks from the best, after all?

Out of nowhere, John smiled at Dean. It was one of those wry, don't shit with me smiles. "You wanna just tell me, son? "

"Tell you what?" Dean asked casually.

"I'm no fool, son. We both know what I'm asking."

Dean _did_ know, and he answered honestly. "I haven't talked to Sam." John scrutinized his son's features, letting Dean break the stare first. Dean could tell his dad wasn't quite sure what to believe, and was maybe even a little bit freaked over all that shit the demon had said. Eager to drop the issue, Dean climbed into bed and pulled the covers up. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna hit the sack now. See you in the morning. Library, right?"

John nodded. "Glad you heard something I said." He stalked over to the sink and began splashing his face with water. Dean observed him, puzzled, as John changed into a fresh shirt and tightened up his boot laces.

Dean pushed off his covers and sat up in the bed. "It's past midnight. Where the hell are you off to?"

John glanced at Dean. "Just because you aren't taking care of yourself properly doesn't mean I can't go out and unwind a little. Library opens at 9, son."

"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered to himself as John slammed the door to the motel room.

* * *

More to come. Thank you for reading! ----- AE


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

* * *

"Sam?"

Sam snapped to attention, realizing that the therapist had just called on him. "Yes?"

The woman gazed at him. Sam couldn't quite tell if her expression was one of disapproval or concern. Probably concern. "Sam, dear, it's your turn to read your trauma narrative aloud to the group."

Sam sighed. As much as he was convinced he didn't have PTSD, he had to admit there were parts of the treatment that were actually kind of helpful. He picked up the paper he had written and began reading his own painful words.

"_Got in late from studying. Had a big interview for law schools. Jess had made cookies, so I ate one and went into the bedroom. I laid down on the bed and I could hear the shower running. I was thinking about how lucky I was to be dating someone like Jess._" Sam swallowed. Here's where he'd had to get a little creative. "_All of a sudden there were flames everywhere. I was on fire, and I couldn't breathe. Where was Jess? Everything went black._" Sam looked up to indicate that he was finished.

The therapist, Dr. Grant, smiled at him. "Thank you, Sam. That took an awful lot of courage."

"I didn't write very much," Sam said.

"That's fine," Dr. Grant said. She addressed the group that was assembled in a circle. "These narratives you wrote are just first drafts, your rawest emotions, uncensored. As we go on, we will flesh them out. I know that reading these narratives is difficult, but we'll be doing it until they aren't as tough."

Sam noticed the young blonde woman in the corner roll her eyes. Her name was Janet, and she'd been in a motor vehicle accident. As the only woman in his treatment group to whom he was remotely close in age, she kind of stood out. Sam's thoughts wandered until Dr. Grant dismissed them for dinner.

The psych wing hadn't been as bad as Sam had expected. He was being kept in the least restrictive part of the wing, and there were inpatients and outpatients in his PTSD treatment group, so he had a little more freedom to roam around. On treatment days, their group even got to eat in a common area instead of in their rooms. Sam looked up as Janet set her tray down next to him.

"This blows."

Sam's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Oh?"

Janet cocked her head. "You don't think this stuff is bullshit? I mean, I'm sure it helps some people, but it's not for me."

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. I don't see how it's hurting anybody."

"That's true. I guess I just wish I could be one of those lucky bastards," she said, motioning to a table full of outpatients. "They get to go home to their real lives, while you and I are stuck here, in these." She motioned to the wheelchairs she and Sam were in. Sam hated being in a wheelchair. It was only temporary until he built up his leg muscles a little more. He was working his ass off in rehab, and he'd seen Janet there, too.

"I have to say, I'm surprised you're still inpatient, Sam."

"Why's that?" Sam asked.

"Eh, I dunno. Your stories about wanting to be a lawyer and all. I know your girlfriend died in the fire, but what about your family? Low-risk cases like yours, usually they just release you into family custody… unless you're some kind of secret whack job or something."

Sam laughed nervously. "I don't think I'm a whack job." _Except when I'm having fucking visions_. "But about my family, um, well…" Sam stared at his lap. "We kind of had a falling out a few years ago. Haven't been in touch since."

Janet stared at him. "Seriously? Swallow your pride, man, call them. They can't be that heartless."

"I tried, the hospital tried… nothing." Sam shrugged. "My dad's kind of stubborn about stuff."

"How about your mom?"

Sam just shook his head. "You're gonna think I'm cursed or something, but my mom actually died in a fire when I was like six months old."

Janet gaped at him. "Shut the fuck up."

"What?"

"That, that's crazy…" Janet said, visibly shaken. "The same thing happened to my mom."

* * *

John had walked to the bar – it wasn't more than two blocks from the motel. If Dean was pissed enough, he could easily find him, but John had a feeling that Dean was out for the evening. The kid had been looking way too tired. John felt off, and it wasn't just the alcohol. Ever since that exorcism, he'd been having doubts about the strategy he'd chosen for tracking the demon.

He wasn't a perfect hunter, and he sure as hell wasn't a perfect father. And yeah, he'd been pissed when Sammy had told him about Stanford. Good fathers don't call their sons pieces of shit and kick them out of their lives with nothing but the clothes on their backs. John knew that.

Hours passed. John was trying to nurse his drinks, but they were tasting so good – feeling even better. He knew it was dangerous, letting the alcohol get to him too much. This was a crap bar, though, middle of nowhere. He'd have to be on the floor before they'd cut him off. John studied the bartender – he was still a man, after all. She was blonde, curvy, and soft looking, with mischief in her eyes. Dean would be all over that, he thought.

John sighed. Dean. The kid was lying about Sam. It pissed John off. Dean couldn't afford to be weak like that, getting tripped up by every last thing a demon said. Plus it flew directly in the face of his promise to John those many months ago. John knew it was a dick move, making Dean swear not to contact his brother. But Sam's attitude was a wild card, had been for years, and in the middle of a hunt this big, there was no way he could have that distracting Dean. Not to mention the fact that Sammy seemed to have a supernatural bull's-eye on his back. He was safer far away from this shit.

John took a hard swallow of whiskey. Those were his public reasons for keeping Sam away, the ones he told to Dean, the ones he told to… well, just to Dean. Most of his other contacts had abandoned him long ago. But there was a private reason, a dark one, that not even Dean knew about. God help him, if the rumors were true about Sammy…

John didn't want to think about it. "Hey sweetheart?" he called to the pretty bartender. She smiled at him, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'll take another whiskey. Make it a double."

"You got it," she winked, and busied herself behind the bar.

John's glass wasn't on the bar more than two seconds before he was drinking it greedily. The liquid burned his throat, but he was grateful for any sensations that could compete with the thoughts in his head. What the hell had the demon meant anyway, about Sammy?

John knew Dean better than anyone – he had to have called Sam. John pulled out his cell and dialed the phone company. "Hi, my name is Dean Winchester. I believe that my phone was stolen, and I was wondering if you could tell me the last few numbers that were dialed." After some finagling, John was writing down the numbers and calling them, one after another. "You fucking liar," John finally said, angrily slamming his phone shut.

"Sir?" The bartender said, alarmed.

John threw some bills on the bar as he got up to leave. "Not you, honey. My asshole son."

* * *

"Get up, Dean."

Dean groaned and glanced at the clock. "It's 4 in the morning! The library doesn't open until 9."

John flicked on the light. Dean buried his head beneath the pillow, trying to block out the light that was now flooding the room. John advanced toward the bed. "Get your ass up."

"Fine, _John_." Dean made it a point to stretch out the name, knowing it would piss his dad off. Bingo.

"You cocky son of a bitch," John muttered. "You know what this is about, don't you?"

Dean propped himself up on his elbow and peered up at John. "No idea." Dean stared at his father more closely. "You… you're drunk, aren't you?" Fuck. This wasn't good. Dad had been getting shit-faced more often recently, like the closer he got to Mary's killer, the more "relief" he needed. And since heaven forbid John should actually tell another living soul what was going on in that thick skull of his, Dean had to watch as his father self-medicated with alcohol. Usually Dean could tell because his dad would stumble in late and sleep more soundly than usual. But sometimes, once every few months, things got ugly. Dad was overdue, and Dean could tell that this was one of those nights.

"Don't you try and change the subject." John glared at him. "Did you lie to me, boy? About your brother?"

"No sir. I said I haven't talked to Sam, and I haven't."

John scoffed. "No, I suppose you haven't, have you? His number's disconnected."

Dean scowled. "I'm surprised you care."

"I'm surprised I've raised a goddamn liar."

Dean smiled a little, trying to lighten things up and deflect some of his father's wrath. "Come on, John, half our _job_ is lying. Not my fault I take my work seriously."

"Wipe that fucking grin off your face. That cute shit might work with your sluts, Dean, but it ain't gonna work with me."

Ouch. "You've had too much to drink."

John wasn't done. "You've been nothing but trouble since he left. First it was the pathetic moping – I had to practically buckle you into the goddamn car, ordered your food for you for a week straight. That's infant shit." Dean winced. "Then came the half-assed rebellion. You think I haven't noticed the girls? Do they make you feel good, son? You've always been a whore, used to make me laugh, but now… tell you what, if you charged, we wouldn't have to run the damn credit card schemes." John shook his head. "And always with the attitude. Does it make you feel like a big man, calling me John?"

Dean clenched his teeth, trying not to react. _Don't engage it, son, that's what it wants. _His father's own words from the exorcism earlier in the week filled Dean's head. "_Christo_," Dean said quietly.

John heard. "What? Did you just…?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sorry, son, but this is the real thing."

"Sorry's right," Dean muttered, rising to his feet and scanning the room for his belongings.

John faltered. "What do you think you're doing?"

_Don't engage it_. Dean grabbed his bag and began blindly shoving in his possessions. He didn't have many. He felt John grab his shoulder and turn him around. Dean backed off, holding his bag between himself and his father. "I'm doing what I should have done all those months ago. I'm going to California to find Sam."

Sam. The name hung heavy in the air around the two men. Dean braced himself… for what, he didn't know. Another insult, a punch even. But John did something unexpected. He sat down at the hotel desk and began leafing through his journal. Dean stood silently, watching his father. John spoke up first. "Well?"

"I'm leaving, Dad."

"Then quit wasting my time and go." John looked away. "I'll be able to get more done without you."

That was it. Dean couldn't keep it in. "Do you have any idea how fucked up this is? I swear to god, Dad, if I live long enough to be a father, I'll never treat my kids the way you treated me and Sammy." Dean paused, collected himself, tried to appeal to a part of his father he hoped still existed. "You heard what the demon said. And you were right, I called Sam's number. It's disconnected, Dad, and he's not in school right now. Something's wrong. Please, Dad," Dean pleaded, "come with me."

John slowly shook his head. "You don't know what I know, son."

"Whose fault is that?" Dean asked, exasperated. "We were supposed to be a team, and you made me give up a hell of a lot to make sure of it."

John held up his hand. "Dean, wait… there are things you don't know about your brother."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "You kidding? I know everything about that kid… used to anyway. I know a hell of a lot more than you."

"You don't know everything, Dean." John's voice was flat. Dean could tell that the nastiness was dying down, but he didn't like what was replacing it. Dammit, he should just head out the door. Just keep going. Nothing Dad could say could change his mind. But the curiosity won over.

"What don't I know about Sammy?" John was silent. "Seriously, Dad, what don't I know?"

"Just go, Dean, "John said quietly.

Dean just stared at him. "You gonna let some demon be the one that tells me?"

"_Go._"

Without another word, Dean shouldered his duffel and stalked out the door.

* * *

More to come. Thank you for reading! ----- AE


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU around the time of the Pilot.

* * *

Sam gestured to Janet to move to a more secluded part of the room. Once there, he breathed deeply, trying to force himself to be calm. "What do you mean, your mom died in a fire?"

Janet stared at him. "Just what I said. I was like 6 months old, and the fire started in my nursery. I've gone back and read the fire department's reports -- no one really knew how it happened. Killed my mom, and I think my dad resented me ever since." Janet glanced down. "Sorry... I don't usually talk about it."

Sam shook his head. "No, don't be sorry... I just can't believe that this happened to someone else, too."

Janet smiled at him sadly. "Lucky us." Her smile quickly faded, however, as she began rubbing her temples. "Owww...."

"Janet?" Sam asked, concerned. He watched, horrified, as Janet began to writhe around in pain. "Help!" Sam called, wheeling next to her. Janet's eyes suddenly rolled back into her skull and she began thrashing around. Looking past Sam, past everything, she began muttering words in a language that Sam knew all too well. Latin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw one of the orderlies start toward them. Sam desperately tried to make out what she was saying, but the language was garbled. Bits and pieces were all he could hear: monster, yellow, kill, get away.... Sam allowed himself to be pushed out of the way as one of the orderlies sank a needle into Janet's arm, administering a sedative to the girl. Her body relaxed and her breathing slowed to a more normal pace. As the orderlies whisked Janet away, Sam raked a hand through his hair. What the hell was going on?

* * *

"Dean?"

God, John's head was killing him. And where was all that light coming from?

"Turn off the goddamn light, Dean."

Silence.

Slowly, memories started returning to John – the bar, the whiskey, the phone, the insults. As fast as his hungover body would allow him, John fumbled for his cell phone and dialed Dean. John counted five rings and then the voicemail kicked in. At the sound of his son's voice, John flipped the phone shut and began rubbing his temples. He'd really fucked up this time.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, John redialed Dean's number. "Hello, son," John said in response to Dean's voicemail prompt. "It's me," he added unnecessarily. "I said a lot of shit last night, and I… well, I shouldn't have said it." John cleared his throat. "You didn't deserve that, son. I hope you get this… call me back, and take care of yourself." John hung up quickly. He suspected that Dean was screening his calls, and he didn't blame him for not picking up. Hell, if he was Dean, he wouldn't have picked up either.

It was a long, slow trek to the bathroom. John knew just how few possessions Dean owned, but it was amazing how much emptier the hotel room looked. John thoroughly brushed his teeth, trying to avoid looking his reflection directly in the eye. It was well past noon – John couldn't fathom how he ever intended to be at the library by 9am. He entered the shower and turned the water up hotter than usual. Not that it helped. God, he'd been sloppy last night – what was he thinking? He'd (privately) admit that he had a borderline unhealthy relationship with the bottle, but he couldn't remember ever being that venomous, especially not to Dean. Truth was, John was pissed – at the demon, at himself, but Dean happened to be the easiest target. John never thought he'd up and leave. He didn't blame him either, after what he'd said, after what the demon had said about Sammy…

Before John knew it, the water had gone cold. He needed grease and calories badly, and finally felt well enough to drive down to the diner. The library could wait.

* * *

Freedom. Christ, it felt good.

Dean cruised down the freeway, windows down, cell phone silenced, blasting "Free Bird" out of the Impala's speakers for what had to be the 18th time in a row.

It was such a novel feeling, driving somewhere without seeking Dad's approval, without his orders or his constant check-ins. Dean grinned to himself. He felt half-way normal like this, like he could be any other guy with a sweet-ass car, enjoying his tunes on a gorgeous day. He let himself play with the possibilities. For all anyone knew, he was some college kid on spring break, or he was going to a classic car show, or he was taking a road trip to the coast. What felt even better, though, was knowing exactly what he wasn't doing – he wasn't carrying out some command of his father's or waiting for John to call and give him coordinates or chew him out for something stupid. For the first time Dean could remember, he was actually in control.

Out here, driving like this, Dean almost – _almost_ – could forget about the serious purpose at hand. Dean hoped, so much, that he'd roll into Stanford, do a quick drive-by of Sammy's place and see him out on his porch with a cold one. Maybe a pretty girl, too. Dean chuckled to himself – who was he kidding? Sam probably took a semester off to study somewhere exotic. Dean could feel his smile leaving him. It had been like this since he stormed out on Dad. He would alternate between being relieved and happy about leaving, to getting concerned thinking about Sam and all the reasons why he wasn't in school. Dean brought his gaze back to the highway and glanced at the road atlas spread out on the passenger seat. He'd been driving straight since 4am yesterday, stopping only for fuel, fast food, and sleep. He was speeding, but he was being smart about it. With a little luck, he'd be at Stanford by sundown. With a lot of luck, he'd be taking Sam out for a beer by evening's end.

* * *

Sam felt so out of the loop at the hospital. No internet, no way of knowing what the hell was going on in the world. He could watch TV occasionally, and he was allowed to make phone calls if he needed to, but who would he call? It was seeming more and more likely that he was on his own. Sam found it sad that he actually looked forward to the PTSD group – at least then he got to interact with other people. One of the orderlies came by to let him know it was time to leave for the group meeting. Sam wheeled himself down the hall and let out a grin upon seeing Janet in the room. They had a lot to talk about.

When the group finally took a break, Sam and Janet took their customary side-by-side seats. Sam smiled at her. "It's good to see you here, Janet – I didn't think you'd be in group today."

Janet shrugged. "They're not as bad as they look, the headaches."

Sam was determined to get some more information about it. "I know this might sound weird, but I get headaches, too."

Janet chuckled. "How is that weird? Everyone gets headaches."

Sam looked at her seriously. "Not everyone gets visions along with their headaches."

"How the hell do you know about that?" Janet said, wide-eyed.

"I could just tell," Sam assured her. "The way you were talking, the things you were saying, being so out of it… I thought maybe the same thing is happening to us." He paused. "That's why I'm in this group, you know. The visions. I can't control them, and I don't know when they're coming, they just knock me out." Sam bit his lip. "I hit a nurse, by accident, while I was having one. Broke her nose. The doctors thought it was PTSD, that I was reexperiencing the trauma, disassociating, you know? But that's not what this is." Sam looked up at Janet. Her attention was totally focused on him, and he felt just brave enough to keep going. "They started way before the fire. In fact…"

"You had dreams about the fire before it happened."

Sam froze. "What? I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to," Janet said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Same thing happened to me, with the car accident. I saw my boyfriend dying again, and again, and again in that crash. And I did nothing. Didn't want him thinking I was some freak." Janet was crying now, tears running sloppily down her cheeks. Sam knew the feeling. "Look what happened. Who the hell keeps something like that a secret?"

Sam looked at her sadly. "I did. Until right now."

"Well, fuck. Aren't we just two peas in a pod?"

"It's a really messed-up pod," Sam added.

Janet wiped away some of her tears. "I don't understand what's going on, Sam. In fact, it scares the shit out of me. I don't know if I'm relieved or more freaked out that it's happened to someone else, too." She looked down at her hands, then back up at Sam. "So, what else can you do?"

Sam was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Janet smiled a little bit. "Come on, don't be shy. What else can you do? Can you move things? Hear people's thoughts?"

Sam swallowed nervously. "Um, no… It's just the visions. Why?" Sam studied her. "Janet, what can you do?"

"A hell of a lot."

* * *

Dean glanced at the address he had scribbled down on a piece of paper. It was the most recent address he had for Sam. Dean felt his palms begin to sweat as he turned onto the street. It would be fine, Dean told himself. Sam would be out on a date, having a BBQ with his friends, studying for a test... something normal. Dean brought the Impala slowly down the street, studying the buildings. Student housing, nothing great, very uniform… except for a big, blackened, vacant lot in the middle. Dean's heart dropped. It was Sam's.

Dean leapt out of the car – he felt like vomiting. He glanced around wildly. "Hey!" He called out. "You in the baseball cap!" A young-looking guy in a Stanford ballcap trotted over toward Dean, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Yeah, man, what's up?"

Dean swallowed, trying to get his voice under control. "Listen, I'm on a road trip, and I thought I'd surprise an old high school buddy of mine. He lives around here, but I think the address I have for him might be wrong."

The young guy shrugged. "A lot of people live around here, man. I've been here three years, though, so maybe I've heard of him."

Dean showed him the address. "Here's the street number, but it looks, um, it looks like it's just a crater."

The kid whistled. "Shit. That's where your friend lived?" Dean nodded. The kid broke Dean's gaze. "Your friend… his name wasn't Sam, was it?"

"Yes, his name's Sam, Sam Winchester."

The young man kicked the dirt with his shoe. "I'm really sorry to be the one telling you this, but there was a huge fire there about five months back. A girl died, it was all over the news."

This couldn't be happening. Sam was supposed to be safe at school, he was getting away from all of this. Dean made himself continue. "What about Sam?"

"He lived there." The kid replied. "Some people think he started the fire, actually. They'll probably never know for sure, though."

"Why not?" Dean forced out.

The kid shrugged. "He's been in a coma ever since."

* * *

Thanks for reading! There is more to come. ----- AE


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

* * *

Sam glanced around nervously as he wheeled himself into the center of the room. "Um, Janet? Are you sure we should be here?" They were in the basement of the hospital. Something felt off to Sam, and it had taken a considerable amount of deception to get down here alone.

Janet simply grinned. "We needed a little privacy, didn't we? You saw what happened when I had a vision in the middle of the break room." She stared at him. "You know what that's like, with everyone staring and hovering. Besides, I wanted a place with a little more room to it."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Watch and learn." Janet closed her eyes and cocked her head. To Sam, it seemed as if she was concentrating deeply. Suddenly, with a flick of her wrist, the pen Sam was holding zipped through the air into Janet's waiting hand.

"Holy shit!" Sam gasped. "How did you do that?"

Janet smirked. "Call it focus. I'm sure you could do it, too, if you practiced a little."

Sam shook his head. "No way. All I have are the visions, and I can't control those at all. I'd probably blow something up if I tried moving pens through the air."

"Don't sell yourself short," Janet chided. "I bet you'll end up surprising yourself. Besides, pens are just the beginning." Sam felt his wheelchair move of its own accord, propelling him toward Janet's side. "I've gotten a lot better, and I've only been doing this like a month. How about I'll be your coach? We can practice together."

Sam looked doubtful. "Janet, I don't know… something feels really unnatural about all this."

An overly dramatized pout overtook Janet's face, "Oh come on, Sam. Weird things happen to people when they're put in crazy, life-or-death situations. Car accident," she said, pointing to herself. "Fire," she said, gesturing to Sam. "If something good can come out of something so shitty, so be it. And I'll be honest, the visions? They scare me. But this," Sam watched, transfixed, as his pen touched him gently on the nose before returning itself to his hand, "this is fun." Janet assessed Sam's face for any sign of commitment, but found doubt. "I'll tell you this, too… the more I've practiced with the whole moving-shit-with-my-mind thing, the better control I've had over my legs, too."

That got Sam's attention. "Really?"

Janet nodded. "Yeah. I didn't want to freak out the rehab people, you know? They never thought I'd walk again. But check this out." Janet smoothly, easily exited her wheelchair and walked over to Sam.

"Janet, that's incredible!"

"It really is," she replied, "and I think you can do it too. I really do. Please, Sam – I wouldn't have brought you down here if I didn't think it could work." She looked at Sam. "You caught my eye even before we were in the PTSD group together, you know? I saw you in rehab and heard the therapists talking about you, about how hard you pushed yourself and how much you worked at everything. Then, when I found out you were like me…" Janet looked away. "I hope this isn't too much all at once, you know?"

Sam shook his head. "No, nothing like that… well, maybe a little," he added, laughing slightly. "How about we start slow? A couple times a week, down here?"

Janet grinned. "Hey, it beats group therapy – am I right?"

Sam smiled. "Definitely."

* * *

Dean tried to get his heart rate under control as he sat alone in his car. His instinct was screaming at him to go find Sam as soon as possible, but reason was telling him to stop, be smart, and formulate a plan. Reason was no match for guilt, though.

Four months. Four _months_!

To hell with Dad, to hell with the job, Dean should have been there for his little brother. What had even happened? Dean needed some information, fast. Shakily, he started up the car and began to drive toward the center of campus. Surely there would be a library – this was a college, right? A half hour of free internet was all he needed.

Dean managed to guide the Impala into a narrow parking space right in front of Stanford's main library. He felt oddly self-conscious as he ascended the stairs. Everything was so clean and well-kept. "I don't fit in here," he thought momentarily as he passed a group of young women. Dean was used to approving female gazes, but these felt different. Embarrassed that such thoughts were even coming to mind at a time like this, Dean hustled through the large double doors and settled himself in front of a free computer.

It didn't take long for the whole story to come out. Sammy had been living with a girl. Dean sadly wondered about the nature of that relationship. How had they met? Was it serious? Was Sammy happy? Dean had come across numerous pictures of the girl, Jessica Moore, and she was a knockout. Gorgeous. Way out of Sam's league.

Dean swallowed hard. She was dead now. If only Dean had the balls to come here months ago, he could have been teasing Sammy about landing a hottie, about settling down. Dean saw that most of the information in the newspaper articles was about Jessica. There had certainly been mentions of Sam, especially in the direct aftermath of the fire, but it was obvious from the lack of articles over the past few months that no one thought Sam would be waking up any time soon. One article beseeched the public to please call in if they had any information about Sam's family, as no one could be reached at the numbers Sam had provided the University for his next of kin. Dean felt sick. How wrong was that? For 18 years, he and Sam had been a unit, never going anywhere without the other. Now, a goddamn newspaper was wondering if Sam even had a family. Dean supposed he hadn't, not for the past four years.

Dean forced himself to continue reading the articles. No one could understand how the fire started. Some people even suspected that Sam had done it, but there was no proof. An unexplained fire. A woman dead. And Sam right in the middle of it all.

It was the demon. Had to be. Wasn't that what he and Dad were supposed to be doing? Following the goddamn demon that killed Mom? How was it that the demon killed Sam's girlfriend and they hadn't even heard about it? More specifically, why hadn't _he_ heard about it? Dean had made it his mission to look out for his little brother, to keep him safe. What the hell had he been thinking? Dean knew one thing – if he ever got his brother back, he wouldn't abandon him again.

* * *

John yawned as he worked his way through another month of Doppler radar charts. He was definitely onto something with the lightning storms signaling demonic activity. As was his custom, John absentmindedly Googled his own name. It wasn't the first time he'd felt grateful for having such a common name. Of the three Winchester men, it was probably Dean that had the most trouble covering his tracks. Less common name. Less common face. Then again, Sammy had the height thing going, in recent years.

Dean and Sammy. John paused for a bit, thinking about how easily his two boys came to mind. It wasn't easy being a father under the best of conditions, and under terrible conditions, John had cracked. There were two nights he especially wished he could take back – the night Sammy left, and now the night Dean left, too.

Without really thinking it through, John typed his youngest son's name into the search engine. He was greeted with a couple facebook pages, some blogs, a few pictures of a country western artist… Nothing about the real Sam, his Sam.

Feeling oddly compelled to do so, John added "Stanford" to the end of his query and was immediately greeted with a smiling picture of his own son. "Foolish," John muttered. He supposed something like that was mandatory for school, but he didn't like it being up there on the internet for everyone to see. He looked closer at the photograph and saw that it was linked to a news article. Why the hell was Sammy in the news? Maybe he won a contest or something, John thought.

The headline hit John hard. "FIRE DESTROYS APARTMENT." He read on madly: "Woman dead, man in coma…" No, god no…it was Sammy. It was Sammy in the coma. That's what the demon had meant about him being inactive, not talkative. John scanned the rest of the article – it was from four months ago. Not even pausing, John punched Dean's number into his phone. Straight to voicemail, goddammit! Not even waiting for the beep, John began speaking. "Dean, son, you have to listen to me. Sammy is in trouble, there's been a fire. It's the demon, son. I'm coming to California to meet you." John clicked his phone shut as he quickly exited the library. There would be no sleeping tonight, he thought as he started the car and mentally planned the quickest route to Palo Alto, California.

* * *

Sam was _standing _in the middle of the basement. Elated, he looked to Janet for encouragement.

"That's good, Sam," Janet said in a measured tone.

Sam was surprised. It had been less than a week since he and Janet had first come down to the basement. He'd been working so hard for this, even dedicating time to it alone in his room in the late evenings. "Am I doing something wrong?"

"No, no, it's just that you could be doing even more."

Sam half-smiled. "You must think I'm some kind of Superman. It took me a lot just to be able to do this."

Janet wasn't giving ground. "Well, sorry for believing in you, Sam, but I still think you can do more. How about you grab my pen over there?"

"For real?" Sam looked at Janet's pen. It was at least twenty feet away, resting on her wheelchair. With intense concentration, Sam closed his eyes and reached out in the direction of the pen with his mind.

"Come on, Sam. Keep pushing. I know you can do it," Janet urged.

God, he was so close. It reminded him of being on the job with Dean. Inevitably, there had been times when the weapon he needed was just out of grasp. He'd contort his body, pray for an adrenaline burst, anything just to lay a fingertip on whatever weapon was needed to vanquish some monster and keep he and his brother safe. It was that same feeling now. If he could just reach the pen, just get the slightest hold on it…

And the next thing he knew, he was crashing to the ground, and the pen was still on the wheelchair.

"Sam!" Janet shouted, rushing over to him.

"God _damn_ it!" Sam spat in frustration, driving his fist into the concrete floor. "I was so damn close."

"You were, you really were. I probably pushed too hard," Janet said as she wrapped an arm around Sam and began helping him to his feet.

"No, it wasn't you, it's me," Sam complained, rubbing his temples and leaning into the petite blonde for support. "I just can't seem to keep a grip on it, you know? It's a fucking pen. It comes so easily to you. Like now," he said, gesturing to Janet, "I must have like 100 pounds on you and you're helping me up like it's nothing. Jesus _Christ_, I'm pathetic-"

Janet suddenly tensed and tightened her grip on Sam. Leaning down to ask if she was alright, Sam gasped.

Her eyes were black.

* * *

Thanks for reading! There is more to come. ----- AE


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

* * *

"Christo!" Sam screamed. With a snap of her wrist, Janet sent Sam flying into the near wall of the basement.

"Heard you the first time, kiddo."

"You're not Janet," Sam snarled.

"You're right," Janet shrugged. "Never was. In fact," she said, running her hands suggestively over her body, "_her_ name's not Janet either. It's Meg."

Even pinned in place, Sam had enough range of motion to shake his head. "Son of a bitch. All this time?"

Janet, or Meg, or whoever she was, just laughed. "Right again, Sammy. Even the car crash was real. I'm a fan of authenticity." She reached out and tousled his hair. "You know what I find just so funny about this?" Sam rolled his eyes. "It's that your daddy was right. Lovable, batshit-crazy John." In an eerily spot-on impression, Janet recited, "You'll get rusty, Sammy, and then who's gonna save your ass? It ain't gonna be me. Or Dean. Don't go calling me if you get yourself in trouble." Janet smiled slowly up at Sam, her voice returning to its normal pitch. "And you _are_ in trouble, Sammy. Loads of it."

"How did you find me?"

Janet gaped at Sam. "Are you kidding me? It wasn't hard. You went and registered at college with your real name? Smooth one. We've been keeping tabs on you for years. Didn't even believe it was you at Stanford at first – what are the chances that John's son would be out there all alone, a big target on his back? I thought it might be some kind of trap. When we realized it wasn't, we just had to pick the right moment. Then set a fire. Then possess a cute little blonde chick and ride her body around to get you to practice your shit." Janet shook her head. "I swear, Sammy, you're slow on the uptake with all this. You should be hurling desks around by now, not pens."

"What? You mean you're not doing this to me?"

"Nope." Janet brought her body uncomfortably close to Sam. "You see, Sammy, you're special. There aren't many people like you in this world. You were chosen, Sam."

"What are you talking about? Chosen for what?"

Janet laughed. "It would blow your mind if I told you." She winked at him. "I think it's going to be you, too. I'm betting on it, anyway. That's why he sent me here, to give you a little extra training before the big showdown."

Sam didn't even know what to say – his mind was absolutely reeling. The things this creature was saying made no sense. He was trying desperately to remember her words. If he got out of this, he had to call Dad, needed to call Dean…

Janet approached Sam again and firmly placed her hands against the sides of his face, forcing eye contact. "I know this is overwhelming, Sammy. But if you do what I say, everything will be easier for you."

Sam snorted. "I'll bet," he said sarcastically.

Janet frowned. "Sam, I've been a friend to you, more than anyone else these past few months."

"You killed Jess!" Sam yelled.

"I personally didn't do that." Janet arched an eyebrow. "But come on, Sam, you were going to marry her." Sam looked away. "You were gonna have a whole different life than what we needed from you. We couldn't let that happen." Janet exhaled deeply. "And now, it won't."

"You bitch," Sam spat.

"For real? That's the best you can do?" Janet chuckled to herself. "Actually, that probably _is_ the best you can do right now. Pathetic."

Janet released her grip on Sam, sending him tumbling to the cold concrete. And then it hit him. This was the basement. The one from the visions. Whatever awful fight he kept seeing, it was going to occur right here. Instinct kicked in, and Sam tried to leap to his feet, only to find them too weak to support him. Dammit! His body was being such a traitor right now. Sam reached out an arm to trip Janet. She fell onto her back, and Sam dragged himself over to her, trying to pin her in place and search her for a weapon he knew must be present.

It was a losing battle. Janet had the upper hand with strength and mobility, and delivered a swift kick to Sam's knee. Sam groaned as Janet flipped him onto his back and straddled his body with her legs. "If you wanted a ride, all you had to do was ask," she said, pinning Sam's arms to the concrete floor. "I picked a blonde just for you, you know." She began to grind into him over his scrubs. "Did you like it when Jess used to do this?" she whispered.

That was it. In a burst of strength, Sam managed to free his hands and landed a direct blow to Janet's jaw. Janet leapt off of him, rubbing her chin. "A little rough, huh? Then you'll get a rise out of this," she said as she kicked Sam hard in the temple. Everything went black as Sam lost consciousness.

Janet shifted her broken jaw back in place and grabbed Sam by the hair, dragging him over to the stairwell. She leaned down and slung Sam over her shoulder. Janet needed to get him back up to the room and figure out a plan now that he'd called her out on being a demon. She trudged up the stairs, and turned to the side to try to fit herself and Sam through a narrow area. Sam was a big guy, but she wasn't concerned with being careful. Janet swung open the door to the third floor stairwell and was greeted with a young nurse talking on a cell phone.

The nurse glanced at Janet and continued talking on the cell phone, then did a double take. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked, alarmed. Janet grabbed the cell phone out of the nurse's hand and clicked it shut. The nurse stared at Janet in disbelief before moving to retrieve her phone.

"Not so fast," Janet said. Quickly, she withdrew her knife and sliced across the nurse's neck. Dropping Sam to the ground unceremoniously, Janet took out an old-looking goblet to collect some of the nurse's warm blood. Willing the doors of the stairwell to remain closed, Janet swirled the blood around in the goblet and began the communication process. She relayed the message that Sam had found out she was a demon and was about to propose her plan when she received a message back. Janet's eyes widened in disbelief.

Dean was in Palo Alto.

Well, this changed everything, didn't it? She had to hand it to him, the boy had some timing. Janet sighed-- she needed Sam unreachable, Dean out of the way, and some back-up to arrive immediately. Staring down at Sam's unconscious form, Janet knew what she needed to do. She hoisted him onto her shoulders and carried him up to the 6th Floor stairwell, where the psych ward was located. Peering into the hallway, she found that it was deserted and slipped into a nearby treatment room. Janet quickly grabbed two hospital wheelchairs and shoved them into the stairwell with she and Sam. Pleased with her handiwork, Janet took a deep breath, and let out a loud scream. "Help! Someone help me!"

* * *

Sam woke up woozily. He shook his head and tried to sit up, but found that he couldn't. "What the hell?" Sam muttered. He scanned his body quickly. His head was killing him, his knee hurt… and his hands were restrained to the sides of his hospital bed. He was in a new room, alone.

After a few moments, Dr. Gregory, his psychiatrist, entered the room. "Sam, you're awake. We need to discuss what happened this afternoon."

Sam stared at her. "Why am I tied down?"

Dr. Gregory sighed. "Sam, please. Tell me why you did that to Janet."

Sam tried to sit up again, only to be limited by the restraints. "What? Where is she?"

Dr. Gregory shook her head. "We certainly are not going to release that information to you, not after what you did."

"What are you accusing me of doing, exactly?"

Despite Dr. Gregory's seemingly calm demeanor, Sam could tell that she was just barely containing her anger. "Sam, you lured Janet into the stairwell. I don't know how you even managed to get there, with the security on this floor. Once she met you there, you attacked her. Janet told us she barely escaped you, but she managed to kick you off of her and knock you out." Dr. Gregory leveled her gaze at Sam. "Sam, this will _not_be tolerated. We believed that you were not a threat to yourself or others but, clearly, we were wrong." She leaned in close to him. "Janet is not pressing charges, despite my recommendations. We try to provide a safe treatment environment for all of our patients, which is why you are no longer a part of the PTSD group. Obviously, you require more intense supervision, restriction, and individual treatment than we originally thought."

Sam looked at his therapist. "I did not do what you think I did." He was furious. Janet had gotten just what she wanted. He was strapped down to a bed in the damn psych ward, and he couldn't exactly tell Dr. Gregory that Janet, the car crash victim, was actually Janet, the demon.

Dr. Gregory simply shook her head. "We've given you a sedative, an antipsychotic, and a mood stabilizer. Someone will check in with you later." She took one last look at Sam before exiting the room.

Sam let his body relax into the bed. No wonder he felt so out of it. He was drugged to the gills, and a demon was wandering the hospital. Sam's head ached sharply. He hadn't realized that Janet had kicked him so hard. Suddenly, the hospital room disappeared, and Sam once again found himself overtaken by a vision.

* * *

Dean finally arrived at the hospital, and spent the next twenty fucking minutes searching for a parking space in the garage before finally pulling up onto the sidewalk outside the main hospital entrance. He couldn't give a shit less at this point. He just needed to see Sammy.

Dean strode into the hospital and went directly to the main desk. He singled out a non-busy redhead and approached her. Normally, he'd flash her a grin, try to finagle a number, but today there was no bullshit. "I need to see my brother," he stated. "His name's Sam Winchester. I'm Dean Winchester."

The redhead smiled up at him brightly. "One moment, sir," she said as she entered the information into the computer. Her face dropped as Sam's file loaded. She peered up at Dean, confused and surprised. "You're Sam Winchester's brother?"

"Yeah, where is he?" Dean said, shortly.

Flustered, the nurse glanced at the keyboard. "I, I'm sorry this is just so unexpected." She looked up at Dean again. "I'll need to see your identification." She paused as Dean handed it over. "Are you aware that your brother's been here over four months?"

"Yes, I'm fucking aware." The receptionist flinched. Dean shut his eyes and massaged his temples in frustration. "Look, I'm sorry. I know he's been in here a long time, and I know how shitty it looks that this is the first time I've been here, but I'd really like to see him."

The nurse stared at him sympathetically. "Mr. Winchester, I'm afraid that any visitors need to receive clearance from Sam's psychiatrist, Dr. Gregory. She's in right now and-"

"Wait, what? Psychiatrist?" Dean looked at her. "Lady, please, I know you can't tell me a lot, but last I heard, Sammy was in a coma."

The redhead bit her lip. "Um…" She glanced around the reception desk, making sure no one was observing. "Listen, you're right that Sam was in a coma, but on here it looks like he woke up a few weeks ago."

"Oh thank god," Dean said, relieved. "Seriously, thank you. You have no idea how crazy I've been going."

"I wish I could tell you more," the woman whispered. Another receptionist cast a strange glance toward Dean and the redheaded woman. Straightening up and raising her voice, the redhead continued, "I'll get Dr. Gregory down here right away, Mr. Winchester, and she will be able to give you the details on your brother's condition." Dean nodded his thanks to the woman, who rewarded him with a wink in return.

After fifteen minutes of waiting that seemed more like fifteen hours, a young, African-American man in a white lab coat approached him. "Dean Winchester?" he asked. Dean stood and nodded. "I'm Dr. Trinidad," the man said, "Sam's primary physician. I've been coordinating his care for the past four months." He looked Dean in the eye. "You're a hard man to track down, Mr. Winchester. We've tried contacting you and your father for months."

"I thought I was meeting Dr. Gregory," Dean said.

Dr. Trinidad nodded. "Yes, we'll be meeting her upstairs. She's not answering her pager. Why don't we go there now?"

Dean walked next to the doctor, impatient for more information. "Doctor, how is Sam?" he asked.

"How much do you know about what happened to Sam?"

"I've read the newspaper articles," Dean replied. "I know there was a fire four months ago. Sam's girlfriend didn't make it, and Sam was in a coma." Dean paused. "They told me Dr. Gregory is a psychiatrist. Did Sam, um, does he know what's going on? I mean, is there brain damage or anything?"

Dr. Trinidad glanced at Dean. "What Sam went through was traumatic, Dean, physically and emotionally. Dr. Gregory is handing the emotional part, and I'm sure she'll tell you more about that, but I can let you know that Sam's cognitive functions are still fully intact."

Dean released a breath he hadn't even known he was holding. "Whew… man, that's good to hear."

Dr. Trinidad continued. "I've been handling some of the more physical aspects of Sam's recovery. He had some lung damage from smoke inhalation and he sustained some burns on his left arm that left him with permanent scarring."

Dean frowned. "Then why the coma?"

Dr. Trinidad's forehead crinkled in thought. "Honestly? We don't know. All in all, Sam's been healing really well. His body's still weak from being inactive for so many months, so he's in a wheelchair until he can rebuild the muscles in his legs." Dr. Trinidad's pager began beeping. "Hmmm," he said, checking it. "Dean, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to drop you off with Dr. Gregory. She'll be able to update you on Sam's condition, and I will check in later." Dr. Trinidad opened the door for Dean and ushered him into the room. "Dean, this is Dr. Gregory," Dr. Trinidad said, motioning to a pleasant-looking woman in her late fifties.

"Hello, Dean," Dr. Gregory said, grasping his hand. "It's good to finally meet you."

Dr. Trinidad turned to Dr. Gregory. "Listen, Sue, I've got a call down on the fourth floor. Could you fill Dean in on Sam? I've gone over some of the basics, but I'm sure he has a lot of questions."

Dr. Gregory smiled. "Of course, Al. I'll take care of it." She watched as Dr. Trinidad left the room, then smiled at Dean. "So, Dean, I'm sure you want to see your brother."

"Yes, very much," Dean replied.

"Follow me," said Dr. Gregory. "I'll fill you in on everything on the way there."

Dean stayed close to Dr. Gregory as they left the room and navigated their way through the hospital corridors. "So why is a psychiatrist seeing Sam?" Dean asked. "What happened to him?"

"Well, we believe that Sam is suffering from Posttraumatic Stress Disorder," Dr. Gregory explained. "I'm sure Dr. Trinidad's told you about his physical injuries," she said as they entered the elevator. "Sam also has a lot of emotional scars, too, I'm afraid. His girlfriend dying was hard on him, and he's been having awful nightmares about the tragedy. He's currently receiving group counseling."

Dean nodded. "Okay. How about physically? Is he going to recover?"

Dr. Gregory nodded. "He should. It's an ongoing process, but your brother's been very dedicated to his rehabilitation." The elevator dinged. "This is us," Dr. Gregory said.

Dean exited the elevator and paused. "Uh, Doc? I think you pressed the wrong button."

"No, Dean." Dr. Gregory smiled as she glanced around the basement, her eyes going black. "You're right where I want you."

* * *

More to come. Thank you for reading! ----- AE


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

* * *

"Fuck!" Dean yelled as his back made contact with the cinder-block wall. Goddammit, he couldn't move at all. He eyed the demon. "Where's Sam?"

Dr. Gregory put her finger to her lips. "Shhh, not now. Gotta do a little housekeeping first." As she approached Dean, he tried to flatten himself against the wall even further, avoiding her touch. The creature's hands suddenly snaked around Dean's torso, finding skin and grasping the pistol tucked into his jeans at the small of his back. The woman smiled up at him. "I don't mind this part one bit, honey. Let's see what else you're packing?" Dean sucked in a breath as the woman roughly felt him up, removing weapons as she went. Her hands lingered inside Dean's undershirt and moved uncomfortably downward.

"I know who you are," Dean said, ninety percent sure of himself and hoping to distract the damn thing.

The woman cocked her head. "Oh?" Dean was instantly aware that her hands had momentarily ceased their exploration.

"Yeah." Dean said. "You're that perverted bastard Dad and I exorcised a few weeks ago. You said you were gonna come back and find me, top-side." He glanced at the creature. "Congrats."

The demon giggled and damn, was that a disconcerting sound coming from the older woman. "You think I'm Roderick? For real?" She snorted. "_No._ In fact, he's on our shit list right now."

Dean looked at her in confusion. "Then who are you?"

The woman shrugged. "Well, today I'm Sue Gregory, psychiatrist." She glanced down. "Not my best disguise, but what can you do? You would have liked me better an hour ago – my old body was a cute little thing named Meg."

"Where's Meg now?"

"Dead, actually. Car crash about 2 months ago. Very tragic."

"My condolences," Dean said sarcastically.

A sly smile spread across the demon's face, "Yeah, she was a hot little number. Sammy liked her. He called her Janet."

Dean snapped to attention. "What do you know about Sam?" The demon just stood there, smiling. "You bitch!" Dean spat. "Tell me where the fuck he is!"

"Sammy," the demon began, and goddammit if Dean didn't want to knock the teeth right out of her face, "is actually locked up in the psych ward right now because I, well, Meg, convinced Sue here that Sammy tried to attack her."

"I will fucking kill you if you've hurt him," Dean threatened.

"Oooh!" The demon threw up her hands in mock surrender. "Look at you. So cute when you're all worked up, trying to be a tough guy." She eyed him. "I can see why Roderick liked you…he was always a sucker for pretty boys with dirty mouths." She shook her head. "I can't believe you thought I was him. Trust me, he won't be leaving Hell any time soon."

"I wish you would just shut the fuck up and tell me where Sam was," Dean snapped. How could he have let this bitch get the drop on him? He'd been so blinded by his impending reunion with his little brother that he hadn't been on guard. Even though he had known that a demon had a hand in the whole situation. Dammit.

The creature continued, unfazed. "See, Roderick's big mistake was that he couldn't keep his goddamn hole shut; he just had to go and tip off you and Johnny-boy that Sam was, how to put it, indisposed." She playfully slapped Dean's cheek, not enough to hurt. "Stupid." She leaned in close to Dean's ear, making the hair on his neck stand on end. "We had you _right _where we wanted you, Dean…not giving a fuck about your brother."

"That's not true," Dean said in a low, barely controlled voice.

The demon shrugged. "Maybe privately." As she said the words, she let her hand linger on Dean's chest, just over his heart. "But you're the only one who could possibly know about that. What matters is what you do, Dean, and when it came to your brother you did a whole lot of nothing for four years, with no sign of stopping."

Dean's heart was racing. "He knew I cared about him," he said, unconvincingly.

"Listen to you!" The demon grinned. "That's such bullshit and you know it. Amazing how all I have to do is scratch the surface a bit," at this, the woman raked her nails down Dean's exposed forearm, "and out comes all this angst." She watched, satisfied, as blood began to drip from the fresh scratches on Dean's arm.

Dean smirked. "Will I be okay putting rubbing alcohol on these, or will I need something stronger? Maybe a tetanus shot? You're a pretty nasty little bitch."

The demon rolled her eyes. "Drop the stand-up act, Dean. It tore you up, staying away from Sam all this time. Who knew how blindly loyal you'd be to daddy, even over your own brother?" Dean glanced away. "After a couple years, we didn't even bother keeping tabs on your anymore." The demon shook her head. "And then your stupid little brother fell in love. Seriously in love, kiddo." She caught Dean's eye. "You probably don't even know how crazy it was. He was going to give it all up for her, you know. Marry her, move to the burbs, become a lawyer and have some kids." Dean wished he wasn't hearing this. "We were never going to let that stand. So we decided to cut it off at the pass." She looked at Dean. "John would have done the same. He knows Sammy's not normal."

There it was again, the bullshit about Sam not being normal. What the fuck? Dean found his voice. "You killed Sam's girlfriend. Don't go comparing yourself to my father."

"Rushing to John's defense are we?" The demon snorted. "That's a good one." Her gaze met Dean's. "I know what he said to you."

"You don't know shit." Dean said, a little too quickly. He couldn't go down this road, not with this demon bitch. "My dad would never do what you did. He would never kill Sam's girlfriend."

The creature sighed. "But he would totally disown one of his own sons, right? And he would make the other one feel like a dickless piece of shit, wouldn't he, Dean?"

"If you don't shut your fucking face-"

"You'll what?" The demon flicked her wrist, and Dean groaned at the pain that suddenly spread across his abdomen. It felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut. The creature grinned and continued. "John sees things in black-and-white; he's the kind of guy that sticks to a plan, and I respect that. Well, Jess was a threat to our plan who got in the way, and got eliminated. No more, no less. And right now, I think I'm looking at another threat."

Dean smirked. "You gonna kill me?"

"Nope. You're gonna kill your daddy. And then you're going to kill yourself."

* * *

I know this is a shorter update than usual, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Thank you so much for reading! I really appreaciate all of your comments and feedback. ----- AE


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. This story is AU and takes place at the beginning of the series.

* * *

Dean gaped at the demon. "What?"

She smiled. "You heard me." She came closer to Dean, approached him in a way that was far too familiar. He tried to twist away from her, but whatever control she had over him kept him pinned in place on the wall. The demon, leading with her upper body, pressed herself to Dean intimately. "You keep so much inside, Dean," she purred, stroking his hair. "Sam, John… they'll scream, they'll say what they mean, but you keep it all bottled up." She caressed his face gently, like a lover would.

Dean swallowed uncomfortably. "Back off."

The woman nuzzled his neck, her curly grey hair tickling his ear. "I'm going to give you such an opportunity, Dean. You're finally going to let out everything you ever wanted to say to John. Show him how you really feel about all those nasty things he said to you."

Dean glared at her. "I will kill you. If it is the last thing I do, I will kill you."

The demon shook her head slowly, almost sadly. "No you won't." She grabbed the back of Dean's head by his hair and pulled his face close to hers. "I can't wait to wear your skin, Dean," she whispered. It was chilling, hearing those words coming from the older woman's mouth. "I'm gonna ride you hard, you know," she said, throatily. "Once I get done with you, there will be no going back; you'll be spent." Dean struggled in vain to turn away from her. "You'll beg me to leave you… to kill you." She leaned into the kiss, opening her mouth fully, pressing her entire body against the length of his.

This couldn't be happening, Dean thought. He couldn't let her possess him. The thought of her approaching Sammy or Dad as him! And she said she would kill John... He felt a presence enter him, transfer from the woman's open, searching mouth into his. Goddammit, he had to fight it off.

_You can't fight me off. _

The fuck? Who said that?

_I did._

Get the hell out of me.

_That sounds so dirty. _Dean tried to roll his eyes, to no avail. _I'm not giving you up anytime soon, honey. I haven't had a body this pretty in a while._ The demon rubbed Dean's hands along the skin of his abdomen._ You take good care of yourself. I can't wait to find a mirror._

Shut the hell up. God this feels weird. Like a fucking puppet with someone's hand shoved up its-

_You really wanna finish that thought?_

No…I've never been possessed before. All these years, and no demon's ever gotten up in me.

_You're kidding, I'm your first? _Dean felt a laugh rising in his throat, though he saw nothing humorous in the situation._ Well how about that – I popped Dean Winchester's cherry. That's something to brag about. _

You're a nasty bitch, you know that?

_Thanks. You're lucky I've kept you this alert._

Yeah, I'm a fucking four leaf clover.

_Cute._ The demon inside Dean directed his gaze toward Sue Gregory, the psychiatrist, who was lying crumpled in a heap at Dean's feet.

Did you kill her?

_She'll be fine. _The demon made Dean kick lightly at Sue, who rolled limply onto her side. _She won't remember much. Unlike you. I want you to remember, Dean. I want you to see it all, to feel it all. I have that kind of control, you know._

I know, Dean thought, his bravado momentarily slipping. He hated that the bitch could hear him.

The demon smiled in satisfaction, a big toothy grin that looked so out of place on Dean's tired face. _I'm going to break you_, she thought, and Dean did not immediately have the energy to disagree. She reached into Dean's pocket, making sure to feel around a bit too much as she removed his cell phone. She searched his thoughts for the password and entered it. She smiled as she listened to John's increasingly frantic voicemails, then dialed his number. "Dad," the demon said gruffly. "Got your messages. Call me when you get to Palo Alto."

* * *

John finished filling up the tank and slid into the driver's seat. It wouldn't take too long to get back on the highway, and he was only a few more hours from the California border. He grabbed the bottle of water he'd bought at the convenience mart and took a swig. Normally, he'd need the caffeine to keep going with a drive like this, but he was so badly shaken from his trip to the library that, if anything, he felt overly alert. Enough that he immediately noticed a small, blinking light coming from his phone. John snatched the phone and opened up, nearly dropping it in the process. Missed call from Dean. "Thank god," John murmured. He hadn't been sure if he'd hear back from Dean after all the shit he'd said, even under the circumstances. He should have known that Sam's well-being trumped even the most justifiable grudges. John started the car and peeled out of the parking lot, eager to get to California and his sons.

* * *

Dean listened, helpless, as his voice told John to come meet him. He could even feel his lips forming the words. The demon bitch wanted John dead. Dad was walking right into a setup.

_Bravo, Dean! You're not as dumb as you look, you know._

Would you shut the hell up?

_Ha!_

You want Dad dead, and I know you want me dead too. I get that – these past few months, we've been a pain in Hell's ass; we've sent a bunch of you demonic shitheads back downstairs. But why Sammy?

_Seriously?_ The demon paused. Dean was immediately struck by an uncomfortable sensation in his skull. It felt like someone was rooting around inside his head, looking for something. Dean felt his body gasp. _Oh my god, you really don't know, do you? This is too good. John sure has some explaining to do, and we're gonna see to it that he mans up._

Whatever bullshit you're spewing, I'm sure Dad can handle it. He'll know it's not me the second we meet up, then I'll get you out of me. I'll see Sammy again. And if I don't, he'll break out of the psych ward before you can get to him.

_You and I both know that you don't even believe yourself. _Dean felt his head shaking._And as for Sammy, he's going to be in the hospital a long time. Indefinitely, Dean. Your brother attacked a fellow patient, he hit a nurse, he has freaky nightmares… he's on lockdown, and he's gonna stay that way for a while. You may not realize this, but I actually know what I'm doing. I can let some low-level demon slip into some receptionist for the next couple weeks to baby-sit Sam while I wear your ass around. _Dean cursed as the demon slapped his ass for emphasis._ Won't take long for me to wear you out. Hell, I could jump out a window right now and be done with you. I'd be able to hold you together for awhile after something like that, but you'd never make it once I was out. You're lucky I like this body, Dean. Try not to annoy me prematurely. _

A little Thanksgiving treat! The style of this chapter is a bit different, but I hope you enjoyed it! ----- AE


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or its characters.

* * *

John walked into the diner, breathless. He'd received a voice message from Dean asking him to meet at Greg's Diner as soon as he arrived at Stanford. Dean hadn't said much, just that they needed to discuss what had happened to Sam and devise a plan. It had been hard to read Dean's tone over the phone – he sounded brusque and businesslike, and John wasn't about to revisit their last conversation unless it was absolutely necessary.

John spotted Dean right away, cupping a mug of black coffee between his hands. Damn, the kid looked tired – Dean had dark bags under his eyes and his face looked pale. He looked awfully young in that worn leather jacket, too. John swore it looked looser than usual. If it wasn't for the world-weary look in his eyes, Dean could pass as a college kid. John felt a pang of guilt. That was a life that was likely closed off to Dean now – always had been, really. That was on John.

Dean looked up as John approached his booth. Something seemed a bit off to John. Dean's eyes were cold, as was his demeanor. John mentally kicked himself for thinking this might actually be easy. After what he'd said to Dean, he didn't deserve easy. "Hey, son," John said, sliding into the booth. Dean gave a slight nod in response.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably and gestured to the waitress. "Coffee, please. Black." John leaned back in the booth and stared at Dean. There was silence until the coffee arrived. John gulped it greedily as he eyed Dean. "So," he began cautiously, "what have you found?"

Dean stared at him. "You start." he said bluntly. It wasn't a question.

John bristled at Dean's tone, but followed along without comment. "Well, you know about the fire. Paper says your brother's in a coma." God, it was hard to say that word. John took a swig of coffee. "That would explain why neither of us could reach him." John paused and looked at Dean pointedly. "I think we both know what did this." He waited for a reaction from Dean, but got none. John lowered his voice. "_Has _to be a demon," he said in a conspirational tone. "Now we just need to find out what hospital he's in." Still, Dean gave no reaction. John's brow furrowed in frustration as he let the silence ride a bit longer. Finally, he made a move to push away from the table. "Let's go find Sam, son."

Dean finally opened his mouth. "I don't think so, John."

Well, that comment certainly had the effect of halting John Winchester in his tracks. He forcefully planted himself back into the diner booth and glared at Dean. "You serious? We're still doing the 'John' thing?"

Dean slammed his hand down on the lunch counter, hard. The diner waitress whipped around to see what the noise was, but just as quickly turned back around when she saw the rage in Dean's face. "You're lucky I'm even seeing you right now," Dean spat. "I know exactly where they're keeping Sammy, but you sure as hell aren't going with me."

John looked at Dean in disbelief. "What the hell? Just tell me where he is, Dean, and we'll go get him. Together."

A wry smile crept over Dean's face. "I'm surprised you think I'm up to a job like that, John."

"Why the hell else would you be here?"

"Oh I don't know," Dean said, still with the odd half-smile. "It's a college town, you know. Maybe I'll find a cheap bar, a cheap girl… dick around a bit. That's what you expect from me, isn't it?"

John's face fell. "Dean, I was drunk. I didn't mean what I said, son."

"Bullshit!" Dean yelled. A few of the diner patrons had already left, and the rest were either paying close attention to the conversation or pointedly pretending to ignore it. "That shit comes from somewhere. Why in hell would I work with someone that has such a low opinion of me?" Dean stared at John. "I wish you weren't my father, and from now on, you won't be." John's heart dropped. Dean's eyes were cold. "And I think we both know you wish you weren't _Sam's_ father."

John was taken aback. "Dean – we both know that's not true."

"You lying bastard." Dean lowered his voice and leaned closer to John. "When were you going to tell me about him?"

"What?"

"You don't get to play innocent!" Dean reached for his coffee and shakily took a drink. He looked troubled. "I…I saw him Dad. He's a mess. A freak. He's not even Sam anymore. How could you have just let him go, knowing he'd turn into that?"

John glanced, panicked, around the diner. "Dammit, Dean, not here. We are not going to talk about this here."

"Then where, Dad, and when? Because I'm not taking you to him until you tell me every damn thing you know about what they did to him."

John swallowed nervously. "Take me to the hospital. We'll talk there."

Dean seemed to consider this. "Fine. I know a place we can talk. But we are talking before you see him." He paused. "I need to know what happened to him, Dad. Please."

John softened a bit. "Alright, Dean. I'll tell you everything I know. We can go right now."

Dean nodded and threw down some cash as both men rose from their booth. A broad grin appeared on Dean's face as he followed John out to their vehicles. John couldn't know it, but inside, his real son was screaming.

* * *

For a long moment, Sam hadn't even realized that the vision had already ended. Adrenaline was coursing through him as he sat straight up in the hospital bed, panting. Sam slowly realized that monitors were wailing all around him. Wait, he was sitting? Last he remembered, he had been strapped tightly down to the hospital bed out of fear he would get violent. He looked quickly down at himself, and found the restraints had been ripped open, yet he had no marks on his wrists.

Holy shit. He had done that.

Normally, after a vision, Sam was drained, down for the count. This vision had been particularly vivid and detailed. It had taken a lot out of Sam, but he knew he had no time to spare. Not bothering to puzzle over it, Sam summoned his strength to roll from the bed and drag himself along the floor to his wheelchair. In a burst of energy, he lifted his upper body into the chair and positioned himself so he could roll easily out of his room, into the hallway, and down to the basement, if only no one caught him. His vision had finally been clear, nearly complete, and he knew just where he needed to go.

Thanks for reading; there's more to come! A happy 2010 to everyone! ----- AE


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